The silence was so intense that the ear, straining for sound, ached from the effort. And just then a bewitched hen in White's shed gave a weird cry and Truedale started. He smiled grimly and thought of the little no-count and the tragedy of the white bantam. In the shining light around him he seemed to see her pitiful face as White had described it--the eyes full of tears but never overflowing, the misery and hate, the loneliness and impotency. At two the next morning Jim tapped on Truedale's window with his gun. "Comin' fur a walk?" "You bet!" Con was awake at once and alert. Ten minutes later, closing the doors and windows of his cabin after him, he joined White on the leaf-strewn path to the woods. He went five miles and then bade his host good-bye. "Don't overwork!" grinned Jim sociably. "I'll write to old Doc McPherson when I git back." "And when will that be, Jim?" "I ain't goin' ter predict." White set his lips. "When I stay, I stay, but once I take ter the woods there ain't no sayin'. I'll fetch fodder when I cum, and mail, too--but I ain't goin' ter hobble myself when I take ter the sticks." Tramping back alone over the wet autumn leaves, Truedale had his first sense of loneliness since he came. White, he suddenly realized, had meant to him everything that he needed, but with White unhobbled in the deep woods, how was he to fill the time? He determined to force himself to study. He had wedged one solid volume in his trunk, unknown to his friends. He would brush up his capacity for work--it could not hurt him now. He was as strong as he had ever been in his life and the prospect ahead promised greater gains. Yes, he would study. He would write letters, too--real letters. He had neglected every one, especially Lynda Kendall. The others did not matter, but Lynda mattered more than anything. She always would! And thinking of Lynda reminded him that he had also, in his trunk, the play upon which he had worked for several years during hours that should have been devoted to rest. He would get out the play and try to breathe life into it, now that he himself was living. Lynda had said, when last they had discussed his work, "It's beautiful, Con; you shall not belittle it. It is beautiful like a cold, stone thing with rough edges. Sometime you must smooth it and polish it, and then you must pray over it and believe in it, and I really think it will repay you. It may not mean anything but a sure guide to your goal, but you'd be grateful for that, wouldn't you?" Of course he would be grateful for that! It would mean life to him--life, not mere existence. He began to hope that Jim White would stay away a month; what with study, and the play, and the doing for himself, the time ahead was provided for already!